


Snow

by cradle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Drunkenness, Fights, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Snow, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cradle/pseuds/cradle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunk John, stumbling around the streets of London in the middle of winter gets quite a fright when he finally makes it home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow

It was snowing and John Watson was drunk. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t help but stumble every now and again whilst kicking up violent flurries of white powder. This trek home through the dark back alleys of London had become somewhat of a habit for the dazed man.  It was late December and the wind whipped John’s dirty blonde hair and stung mercilessly at his face. He didn’t care. He knew he was cold but the warm amber spirits sloshing in his stomach filled him with enough warmth to not mind.

As he walked down yet another street that would lead him home to 221B, he gazed dazedly at the twinkling orbs of lights strung about store fronts and empty flower boxes.

“Mmm,” he murmured to himself. As he turned onto Baker Street he heard the laugh and chatter of a late party drift down into the empty street. The blacktop was slick but snowless while the flakes had begun to collect on the uneven cobblestones. John, distracted by yet another string of lights suddenly caught his boot on loose brick and fell heavily. He hit the ground with a muted slap and winced as pain registered in his knee and wrist.

He pushed himself onto his knees and swore quietly as he felt a drop of blood slide down his temple. He reached up to feel the wound and was pleasantly surprised it was only a small break in the skin. He was fine. With balance regained John pushed himself up off of his torn and wet knees and fumbled for his keys before walking the reaming steps to his familiar wooden door.  The gold numbers sparkled lightly as John tried his best to remember which bloody key unlocked what.  The extra pounding in his head wasn’t doing anything to help him think. He absentmindedly tried the door and to his slight surprise the knob turned. Without giving the unlocked door a second thought he pushed ahead and slammed the door behind him.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind it registered that he should try to keep quiet for the sake of Mrs. Hudson as he slugged nosily up the stairs. It wasn’t until he was inside his own flat did he fall quiet. He tossed his coat carelessly on the floor, took two steps towards his room before deciding against and slumping onto the couch.

“Christ,” he muttered as he rubbed his eyes. They ached terribly. The dark purple that circled his blue gray eyes had become a part of his face. So had a crease or two that appeared on his forehead whenever he thought too much- too much about anything really. Especially when he thought about his best friend. His- his dead best friend. His best friend who now, as he had for nearly twelve months lay rotting in a godforsaken hole in ground. The thought suddenly occurred to John how cold he must be how cold- Sherlock was.

At this tears leaked out of the man’s eyes and he felt a heavy breath wrack his body.

“Dammit!” he muttered angrily. “Dammit. Dammit. God fucking dammit!” This was the way it went. Go out to the pub, drink, crawl home, lay down and break down, fall asleep and repeat. Quiet but intense sobs shook the man’s body as he lay on the couch, broken hearted and bleeding. He went on like this for what seemed like hours, drifting in and out of consciousness.

It was a little past four when something in the air of the flat changed. Just on the edge of sleep, John’s eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright wincing at the pain in his head. A light had been turned on. The disheveled man looked around wildly for the source of his confusion. He stared at the lamp that cast a warm yellow glow on the carpet, papered walls, overflowing cardboard boxes and… a figure. The tall shadow stood just out of reach of the light, facing John.

The retired solider tried to jump to his feet but only got half way before faltering and falling back onto the couch. He had drunk far too much for far too long, even by his standards. So John sat on the couch and stared at the shadow and the shadow stared back.

“Who-“ John began “what are- what-“ The shadow moved forward and John inhaled sharply, his voice catching in his throat as a familiar, impossible face with high cheekbones was bathed in light.

“Hello, John.” The low rumbling voice washed over John and suddenly he was wide-awake. His eyes flared and his cheeks flushed as he rose to his feet and crossed the room in three long strides. His clenched fist pulled back and hit Sherlock Holmes square in the face. Sherlock stumbled backwards as blood poured out of his nose. He made no attempt to retaliate, or even stem the blood flow but his eyes looked pleadingly at John.

“Please, let me explain” he began again but another blow to the head cut him off. An ugly shade of purple blossomed instantly around his left eye and much to John’s horrific anger, Sherlock managed a sort of strangled smile. He teeth were stained with blood.  John stared at him, livid and seething. His chest rose and fell violently and he could hear his heart beat as loud a freight train inside his skull.

“You’re _dead_ Sherlock Holmes! You are supposed to be _dead_!”  He could not even begin to process what was happening all he knew was that he had been fooled. It was nothing but a sick twisted puzzle that Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock had concocted.

At this thought, John’s knees buckled and went out from under him. Sherlock grabbed him before he hit the floor and pulled him to his chest.  John thought he could hear another freight train from inside the other mans chest but his vision was spinning and he wasn’t sure he could trust his senses. After all, he was in the arms of a dead man. He choked violently on a cough and sputtered profusely. The two slowly sank to the floor, Sherlock still clutching John tightly about the shoulders.

“John-“

“You,” panted John “god damn son of a bitch. You bastard!” He glared at Sherlock. He wanted to hug him and kill him and kiss him and throttle him all at once and it was driving John mad. His body was heavy and his knuckles were sore from where they had struck Sherlock and nothing made sense. His vision darkened and blurred and the last thing he heard before he passed out was a familiar voice calling his name.

 

 

           

 

 

***

 

John stirred slightly at the sound of a kettle whistling in the distance and instantly let out a grunt of pain. Dull shots of electricity shot through his body from his knees and knuckles and most intensely, his head. It pounded painfully with each beat of his heart. Instinctively he lifted a hand to his temple and found the gash from the night before. It has been cleaned.  John could smell the antiseptic on his fingertips. As John regained consciousness he began to take stock of everything he could before opening his eyes.

He was covered with copious amounts of heavy blankets on top of a layer of sheets and yet he still felt a chill in his bone. John shivered and rolled onto his side, tucking his legs to his chest so he was nothing but a ball of blankets and warmth. As he readjusted himself he realized he was in his dressing gown. His eyes flew open at this realization. Gray sunlight filtered in through the windowpanes stained by the dirty, constant breath of London air. He reached a tentative hand down to his leg and felt warm skin under the cotton fabric and nothing else.

He hadn’t changed since he got home, how did he- John blushed scarlet in spite of his headache. He struggled to remember what had happened when he arrived home last night, or rather very early this morning. He knew he had fallen badly and then… and then-

“Sherlock.” John pushed himself into sitting position and the room spun sickeningly. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again and looking wildly around the room.  His blood stained jacket hung on the corner of the slightly ajar door. A small puddle of water had collected below it. John stared at it for a moment before opening his mouth, closing it and opening it again.  The teakettle had stopped singing sometime ago.

“Sherlock?” There was no answer. John tried again. “Sherlock?” Louder. “Sherlock?!” His voice was tinted with hysteria. Was he going mad? Had he made the whole thing up? What- Suddenly, the sound of footsteps could be heard coming quickly down the hall.

The door was gently pushed all the way open and John gazed at the weather beaten man filling the doorway. It was like stepping into an old photograph or a time machine or just being really, really smashed. There was Sherlock Holmes, the mad genius, dark curls and all, standing in John’s room clutching a tray of tea and what appeared to be slightly burned toast. The two men stared at each other for a while before Sherlock spoke, as John was obviously not capable of words.

“I,” Sherlock cleared his throat “I,” he began again, “made you some tea and toast…” He trailed off as John continued to gape at him. He had dark purple smudges around the bridge of his long nose and bottom eyelids. His left eye was swollen and bloodshot. John was almost pleased with the bruises he had caused to blossom like some sickly flower on Sherlock’s face.  

“John?” John refocused his attention on Sherlock who still stood awkwardly in the doorway, face twisted like that of a guilty child. “I am so, so, sorry.” He stammered before losing all composure.

 “If you let me explain- I.. I had to! Moriaty! he was going to have you all killed! You and Mrs. Hudson and- and-”

In one swift movement Sherlock had carelessly dropped the tray on top of the dresser, crossed the room and pulled John to him in a crushing bear hug. John gasped as the air was pushed forcefully out of his chest.  He could feel Sherlock trembling against him, trying his best to maintain his composure.  John closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar warm scent of Sherlock that always seemed to cling to his wild curls.

 He found himself gripping Sherlock back just as tight, his chest rising and falling heavily.

“You, complete ass, Sherlock Holmes” John muttered into the other mans neck. Startled, Sherlock made to draw away but John gripped him harder. “I missed you,” he whispered into his ear. A smile played at the corner of his lips as he let Sherlock move back so he could see his face.  Without thinking John raised his right hand to stroke a bruised cheek. Sherlock let out a strangled laugh, his eyes glassy. The two gazed at each other, their faces a mix of grief and laughter. Sherlock placed his hand over John’s and smiled weakly.

John watched in awe as red colored Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Come here,” John said suddenly. Sherlock began to speak but John, throwing caution to the winds pulled the other man’s face to his and their lips crushed against each other. Sherlock shakily braced himself on the headboard with one hand and cradled the back of John’s head with the other. After what seemed like a second Sherlock gently pulled his mouth away. John tried to follow but was held at bay by Sherlock’s out reached arm.

John looked up, worried that he had made a mistake. He searched Sherlock’s face for any signs of anger or disgust, but found none. Sherlock sat by his side, studying John’s flushed face, not saying a word.  John wasn’t sure where to look. He could feel a raw, pulsing desire deep in his stomach and in-between his legs but he continued to sit there, head spinning, not saying a word and trying to keep his lust from showing.

John felt the weight on the bed shift as Sherlock stood up and pulled off his own nightgown. John had kept his old pajamas and gown in the bottom of his dresser. He wasn’t surprised at all the Sherlock had found them so easily. He wore a shirt and pants underneath the blue gown but John couldn’t help himself from licking his lips. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as the robe fell to the floor. He sunk back to the bed and placed a hand on John’s thigh.

John took a sharp intake of breath at the feel of Sherlock through the blankets.

“John?” He looked up to meet Sherlock’s hard gaze.

“Yes?”

“I am going to make this up to you, this whole messy ordeal. It’s been what three years? I needn’t have waited that long, two was enough maybe even one and a half…” He trailed off. John waited.

“The point is,” he continued after a moment “I had to give up so much. Everything, but please know, that a day did not go by where I didn’t think of you. You all alone here on Baker Street.” Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away quickly, blinking rapidly.

“I had to John. I couldn’t let them hurt you.” With this last sentence Sherlock’s voice broke. Even he looked taken aback by emotion in his voice.

“Damn it John! I was scared.” A question formed on John’s lips but the answer came before the question even left his mouth.

“You wouldn’t want me back after everything, and-“ Sherlock wrung his hands before tangling them in his hair.

“Hey, wait, please-“ John stammered. He had never seen Sherlock in such a state. Cool, calm, collected, Sherlock Holmes, barely able to finish a sentence. It was rather alarming.  With a sudden jolt, Sherlock’s hands were griping either side of John’s shoulders.

“Please,” he moaned.

“What?” John half whispered.

“Just… just let me love you John. Then I will explain everything just-please let me…” Sherlock slid a hand down John’s chest and under his nightgown. John closed his eyes.

“Yes, please Sherlock. Come here, now.” John repeated as he pulled the shaking man to him again. Their lips met with a new urgency, hungry and searching as they embraced each other. Sherlock broke the kiss to push back the covers and position his legs on either side of John as he pressed him into the bed.

John groaned as Sherlock rocked his bony hips against his. He could feel both of their hard cocks moving against each other. John cursed the fabric between them and did his best to wriggle out of his half open dressing gown. His hang over and wounds were all but forgotten. The only thing that mattered right now was kissing every bit of Sherlock in existence.

As if reading his mind Sherlock pushed John back down into the pillows before reaching up to pull off his gray t-shirt.  John took this opportunity to slide his remaining arm out of his garment before tossing it unceremoniously to the floor. Sherlock grinned down at John’s erect cock and stroked it lovingly.

“Jesus, man!” John gasped at his touch.  Sherlock grinned.

“I thought you weren’t attracted to men, John?” The amusement in his voice was clear.

“Well I thought you were dead!” Sherlock chuckled. “Shut up!” Sherlock’s laughter filled the room. John grinned in spite of himself.  They were mad, both of them. Complete and utter loons.“ I’m still mad at you, you ass!”

Sherlock descended on him. He kissed his way down John’s neck and torso whispering things like”

“I’m sorry,” “I missed you though” and “please let me make it up to you.” John curled his fingers into his friend’s hair. _If this still counted as friendly_ , John thought to himself.

At this point, Sherlock’s tongue slid up John’s cock and it’s owner moaned loudly. Sherlock worked slowly over John before taking him into his mouth and sucking.  John watched Sherlock’s glossy dark curls bob up and down and up and down and…

After a short while John began to feel himself near his peak.

“Ah, Sherlock.”

“Mmm?” Sherlock purred silkily as he looked up.

“Too, fast,” John panted. Sherlock took a moment to nuzzle John’s thigh before shifting so his face was level with John’s. The two embraced again, kissing and pulling at each other’s lips. John eagerly ran his hands down Sherlock’s ribcage and paused at elastic band of his pants. He slipped two fingers inside. Sherlock laughed.

“Don’t worry about me.” He smiled. “This is just for you.”

“Hush” murmured John as his fingers closed around Sherlock’s cock. John was impressed, it was larger then he expected, which was saying something.  Sherlock let out a sigh. John looked at him.  His eyes were squeezed shut. This amused John and he let his hands play with Sherlock.

“John…” Sherlock whimpered. John grinned devilishly. He had never felt any kind of control over Sherlock. This was new and he enjoyed it. He pulled Sherlock’s pants down to his knees and pumped his cock rhythmically. This, whatever _this_ was, was a much-needed distraction. For the first time in months John could focus on one single thing without millions of other thoughts smashing into his skull.

He looked at Sherlock’s face and grinned. He wanted to make him scream. John moved to lower himself over Sherlock but was pinned on his back instead.  Sherlock had regained control. Sherlock took both John’s arms in one hand and held them over his head while positioning himself so he could take both their cocks in his free hand.

John struggled against Sherlock but he was still weak from passing out. Sherlock ground his hips against John, relishing the look on his face.

“I told you,” he growled “this is for you.”

“But-“

“No.” Sherlock said firmly. “This will make you feel better. Just wait.” Sherlock released John’s hands and moved between his legs again. He pulled each of John’s legs over his shoulder and nearly swallowed his cock. John clawed at the bed sheet while Sherlock played with his balls and eagerly sucked the base of his cock. As his head moved up and down John felt the other man’s tongue twirling around his shaft.

John let out a strangled cry of pleasure as he felt himself nearing the edge again. He didn’t want it to stop though, not ever.

“Sherlock,” he gasped “too much-wait.” He could feel the euphoria building in his bowls and he tried to escape, not wanting to come, not yet. Sherlock held him firmly by the hips and John gave in and let the pleasure overtake him. And then suddenly, he came. He moaned loudly as stars popped in front of his eyes and his head spun. His whole body arched and Sherlock moved with him, swallowing every bit of cum until John lay still, eyes shut and chest heaving.

Sherlock untangled himself from John before rolling onto his back and with a few quick pumps, released himself.  The two lay there for a while, spread eagle, stark naked amidst a sea of blue and green blankets.  For a while the only sound was their heavy breathing.  They glanced at each other and John giggled. _He really had gone mad._

Sherlock gazed at him quizzically.

“What?” John reached up to stifle his laugh before looking over at Sherlock.

“No its just that-“ he broke off again and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Really, John.” John reached out and pulled Sherlock towards him, burying his face in his neck.

“I- I just hate you and love you so much Sherlock and…” Sherlock was watching him closely, analyzing his face by the looks of it.  John rolled his eyes and kissed him.

“What are you going on about?” Sherlock persisted, reverting back to his usual impatient mannerisms.  John ruffled his hair. He had never been so unexpectedly happy in his entire life.

“It’s Christmas you git. And a damn good one now that you’re here.” Sherlock stared at him blankly.

“Christmas…” he murmured. “I forgot about the holidays.”

“Of course you did.” John grinned and sat up. He was nothing short of ecstatic. His anger at Sherlock had faded if only momentarily and he wanted desperately to know every detail of what had happened the past couple months. 

Sherlock gaped at him as he threw on his dressing gown and tied the sash around his waist.  John glanced at the cold tea and burnt toast and grinned. He tossed Sherlock his clothes before picking up the tray and heading for the door.

“You alright?”

“Yes, yes. Come on Sherlock I’ll teach you how to make toast.”

 

***

 

Half an hour later the two were seated at the kitchen table with fresh toast and tea as Sherlock explained in great detail how he had faked his own death.  When he finally finished he looked at John cautiously. John sipped his tea silently.

“Well…” John spoke when Sherlock trailed off.

“You are mad Sherlock. Completely mad and wonderful and deranged.” Sherlock grinned into his tea. “There is still loads more to talk about though. Like, how we are going to clear your name and how to tell people you are in fact alive and-“ Sherlock dismissed these problems with a wave of his hand.

“I have it all figured out. You see-“

“But not today.” Sherlock fell quite and gazed across the table. John reached out and place a hand over his. “Merry Christmas,” John smiled.

“Merry Christmas, John.” The two smiled at each other and drank deeply from their tea cups, happy to be back together in 221B Baker Street.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
